


Johnny got his gun

by Pirania



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kidlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-24
Updated: 2015-05-24
Packaged: 2018-04-01 00:41:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3999358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pirania/pseuds/Pirania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Quatervois (pronounced: 'qua-ter-vwa); French; noun 1. A crossroad; a critical decision or turning point in one's life.<br/>*<br/>What Johnny likes most in the whole world are chocolate biscuits baked by his grandma, and then hiding caterpillars in Harry’s bed (Harry makes very funny noises when she discovers them), and then playing football with Mark and Sebastian.<br/>He would never admit it to Sebastian, but the truth is he would rather kick a ball than play war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Johnny got his gun

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Johnny poszedł na wojnę](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2402690) by [Pirania](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pirania/pseuds/Pirania). 



What Johnny likes most in the whole world are chocolate biscuits baked by his grandma, and then hiding caterpillars in Harry’s bed (Harry makes very funny noises when she discovers them), and then playing football with Mark and Sebastian.

He would never admit it to Sebastian, but the truth is he would rather kick a ball than play war. War – decides Johnny in his ten-year-old brain – is random. You cannot plan or predict anything during a war. Meanwhile, football is a series of carefully premeditated actions. Would it be wiser to pass the ball to Seb or to Tommy? Would it be wiser to run towards the goal like crazy or assume it is a trap and, in a second, the other team would emerge from both sides of the field?

What the war is all about is to point a gun at someone (the gun is disguised as a curved stick) and to shoot. Such a weapon can be truly lethal in the hands of a ten-year-old.

Football is all about teamwork, while war deprives you of fellowship. Johnny is unable to count how many times Seb has waited for him in ambush and then killed him, even though they had pledged never to break off their alliance. In moments like those Johnny wonders if he really likes Seb as much as he supposes. Sometimes, in a manner most inappropriate for a deadman, he throws his now very ordinary stick in the bushes and goes home, pouting. But the next day he is ready to follow Seb wherever Seb points. Because this is just the way things are when you are friends with the coolest boy in the neighbourhood.

Johnny is running up the street and whistling. Suddenly he stops, looks around thoughtfully to make sure that no one will see his behaviour, most unsuitable for a mature ten-year-old, and then throws himself into a pile of leaves. Sudden rustle makes a pack of rooks take off, cawing with contempt. The boy stops rolling around and looks up to the heavy Scottish sky. Life is good. School has only just started, they have not got any homework yet, and the overwhelming dampness in the air makes his head spin and weird ideas emerge. What if he forgot about the dinner and lemon pie, what if he got off his head tender hands of his mother, mean glare of his sister, and never quite empty whiskey glass of his father and just walked away? Johnny had read his fair share of adventure novels and he knows this is how just about all great adventures start.

‘Watson, you loser, what the hell are you doing?’  
  
Johnny sprang to his feet and suddenly he was facing Seb’s small crooked smile. A smile that no one was able to resist, neither teachers, nor friends.  
  
‘I’m looking for bugs. For this biology project’, says Johnny because Seb would not understand the dreams about wandering through Scottish hills.  
  
‘Yeah, right,’ Seb grins. ‘C’mon, we’re going to war.’  
  
We’re supposed to play football with Mark,’ protests Johnny weakly, even though he knows there is no saying no to Seb’s decisions.  
  
‘Fuck Mark,’ Seb learned a new word from his older brother and he has been using it with delight for the past week. Boys feel a sweet, forbidden aroma on their tongues. ‘Tommy and Alec are waiting for us. Get a move on!’ And he takes the path to their left. He does not look back because he knows Johnny will listen to him anyway.  
  
But Johnny hesitates. He does not feel like being killed today. He would much rather deke Mark out and score a few goals over Seb’s head. He is better than him at football at least, even though on a battlefield he does not stand any chance. I could go right, he thinks. The right path leads to the football field. The left path – to the square, where a lot of bushes, even more empty boxes and rubbish, and inevitable death await. If he runs along the path to his right, Seb will not have his final word. He will probably be surprised that his sidekick took another road. Maybe he will be sorry. Maybe he will come to Johnny and ask him politely to go to war, because without Johnny there is no fun. Maybe he will say that it is not the same without Johnny.  
  
Or maybe he will sulk. Maybe he will stop talking to Johnny, playing around on schoolbreaks, trading off sandwiches and spooking girls with spiders. Maybe he will be too angry to ever grant his forgiveness. Maybe the blood oath they made at the beginning of holidays, while gritting teeth, so as not to squeal while a pocket knife cut two boyish forefingers (an outcome of an awesome book about a brave Native American warrior Johnny had read by a pocketlight under a duvet, when he was supposed to be sound asleep) will not matter anymore in the face of such a treason.  
Or maybe he will just not care? Maybe, not seeing his best friend behind him, he will just shrug and from now on will start talking, playing around and spooking girls with Tommy or Alec? Maybe he will make another blood oath, with them this time? Maybe he will sit with one of them at school, not paying any attention to the small boy with fair hair who not so long ago was a friend of the coolest boy in school?  
And so Johnny runs along the left path.

*

‘Duck and cover, Watson!’, he hears when he bursts into the square, and, obediently, he throws himself on the ground behind the nearest bush. Having no idea where the scream came from, he just looks around desperately, seeking any wooden gun. Alas, there is nothing of the kind in the nearest area. Johnny clenches his fingers around a stone – a weapon that may be primitive, but still is better than nothing – and crawls on, into the bush.  
  
At the same time, he feels growing rage. This is not what war looks like, this thing is simply not fair. First you need to set some rules, make a pact, decide which part of the square belongs to whom, give a chance to find a weapon. You cannot surprise a soldier who has just got to the battlefield, it is as mean as it is not honourable.  
  
Johnny attempts to breathe as quietly as he can; he breathes air in and out of his mouth in a long, slow fashion. Everything is so quiet… You cannot hear a single thing, neither a dog barking, nor a car humming, nor a bird singing. The silence is tingling in his ears. Just a few inches more… Branches of the bushes scratch yours face, but it is nothing, it is the price of war, the most important part is not to make any noise. Not to make leaves rustle. Not to break a single twig. The enemy may be everywhere. Danger may come from any side, the enemy is sneaky and you should always presume that the enemy know more about you, than you know about him. Caution, Watson. Caution and composure. Any other day you would crawl on, you would stick your head out from the bushes, but not today. Any idiot would do that; they are expecting that. No. Go back a little. There is more space here, should the need arise you can just spring to your feet. Lay, soldier. Do not make a single sound. Caution.  
  
And then, in between tangled twigs, the red sneakers of the enemy appear.  
  
Johnny stands up abruptly, swipes and throws.  
  
He sees Sebastian widening his eyes, opening slightly his mouth, spreading his arms to the sides and theatrically falling on his back with his head thrown backwards.  
  
‘I killed you!’, yells Johnny, overwhelmed with pride and delight. ‘I killed you, I’ve finally managed to kill you! I won, I won!’  
  
Now Seb should stand up, brush himself off and admit the truth – Johnny is the winner today. Maybe he will pout for a bit, but in the end he will have to admit defeat.  
  
But Seb is not standing up. Tommy and Alec are bursting from in between the containers and, with terrified faces, run towards the boy still lying on the ground.  
  
Johnny moves towards his friend as well, but for some reason he finds it very hard to make a step on his stiff legs. Just a moment ago he thought that the silence is absolute, but now he hears riot and some kind of weird bells. Why is Seb not standing up?  
  
Finally he reaches his friends and takes a peek from behind their heads. Seb is lying motionlessly, his eyes remain closed and there is a big, red mark on his forehead; a dribble of horrifyingly scarlet blood is running from his temple.  
  
‘You killed him, Watson’, wails Tommy very quietly.  
  
‘What should we do?!’, asks Alec with a high-pitched, strange voice. ‘Should we patch it up or something?!’  
  
‘You mustn’t shoot with stones, mum doesn’t allow it!’  
  
‘How to check if he’s alive? Hey, Seb!’  
  
‘I think he’s dead, if there’s blood from the head you’re done…’  
  
‘We should call our parents…’  
  
‘Watson, do something!’  
  
Johnny would like to do something very much, but, first of all, he has no clue what he should do, and, secondly, he is evidently unable to do anything at all since something very strange is happening to him. It is as if his body was not his anymore, he cannot control it, he cannot stretch out his arm, he cannot make a step backwards…  
  
‘Watson, stop crying like a little girl and go get your mother!’  
  
This is true, John feels moisture on his cheeks, but it does not mean a thing, because he finally has managed to raise his arm and touch a red drop in his best friend’s hair with a tip of his finger …  
  
‘Watson, come back here! Watson!’  
  
Johnny turns around and runs ahead, but certainly not to get his mother, but in completely another direction. He will run away, find the great adventure and melt into the hills of Scotland.  
  


*

Of course, in the end it turns out that great escapes are always easier in adventure novels. When Johnny finally drags his feet home, he finds only Harriet inside. Seeing him, his sister grabs a jacket and says:  
  
‘We already know, Alec’s mother was here. I can’t believe it, father may just kill you. Sit here, you dumbo, I’m going to the hospital. I’ll come back when I know something.’  
  
There is a glimmer of hope – if Seb has been taken to the hospital, then he is alive. And if he is not, than it does not really matter, father may as well kill him. Johnny will not event bat an eye.  
  
So for the next hour Johnny is motionlessly sitting on the couch. Maybe for a little bit longer than an hour. The room grows darker, but the boy does not realise it. He is sitting. He is waiting for Harry. He is sitting.  
  
Finally he hears door screeching and stands up. His sister gets into the room and turns on the light. Her dark-blue eyes are as big as golf balls.  
  
‘Sebastian is dead,’ says Harry with a terrified voice. ‘He died in the hospital. You killed him. Johnny.’  
  
Suddenly Johnny gets an impression that the whole world has started spinning. He feels his legs turn into jelly and, in despair, he pats around with his hand, looking for some kind of support, the floor is lava, if you fall, you are done…  
  
His state is evidently quite obvious, because the thirteen-year-old cruelty of his older sister remits.  
  
‘Come on, you dumbo, I was joking,’ says Harry quickly, approaching him and patting his head awkwardly. ‘They stitched him up and sent back home. He doesn’t have to go to school for a week, how cool is that? Stop bawling, sucker.’  
  
‘I am not bawling’, says John through clenched teeth.  
  
It is true. This time, he is not crying.


End file.
